


De Facto

by Ink_Vein



Category: Original Work
Genre: Brace yourselves, Definite classism and a bit of racism, F/M, Lots of Murder, Modern Game of Thrones basically, Multi, Murder, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Really screwed up people, Screwed up narrator, Supernatural Elements, Victorian elements, old money
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-06-28 12:57:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15707670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ink_Vein/pseuds/Ink_Vein
Summary: Maude lives a haunted life in her glass box, her only link to the outside her sister, Geneva. No one knows the sinister things that threaten her sanity, and she and Geneva couldn't be farther apart despite her calling every day. As a threat in her life finally reveals its face, Maude comes to some disturbing revelations about her town, specifically what exactly getting involved with the Darlings and Crofts has evolved her family and town into.





	1. Prologue

    Time, it’s a funny thing. We say it heals all wounds, but in all actuality, it opens them. It heals and opens. Heals. Opens. Heals; opens. A continuous vicious cycle of masochism.

    It’s a cruel thing. It steals loved ones. Gnaws mountains. Slows in the youth and speeds to elderhood. Until one day you’re gazing in the mirror at a withered face and grey hair and sagging muscles and receding hairline when just yesterday you could’ve sworn you didn’t look a day over 15.

    It’s a fickle thing. Changes on a whim and never plays fair. Some get more time, some get less. And who deserves more time and who doesn’t get skewed in the process.

    It has become my enemy. It has aged me beyond my days. Taken my love. My friends. Societal hierarchy. The wealth it has given me means little in the face of all it has stolen.

    I used to be a magnate, sitting high on a hill overlooking the valley that was my town. I was a member of the wealthiest family in town, a union that made two wealthy families far wealthier than they could have imagined. And although I was still involved in my business, I’d barely had to work a day in my life because of this. I was betrothed to a dashing Darling heir. My life was as close to perfect as could be.

    Now I’m a widow in an empty glass house overlooking a valley town who think me insane. I am alone, abandoned, shunned. All this wealth is no comfort and I’d give it all back to Time to get my just-barely-husband back. To have my dignity back. To have _purpose_ back.

    Time is a funny thing. A cruel thing. A fickle thing. Time is my enemy.


	2. Criminals with Smiles

###  Chapter One

**RIIIIING! RIIIIING! RIIIIING!**

4:30 AM. Looks like an early morning again.

**RIIIIING! RIIIIING! RIIIIING!**

11:30 AM. Lunch will have to wait, it seems.

**RIIIIING! RIIIIING! RIIIIING!**

6:00 PM. And I was just getting to the good part!

Begrudgingly, I drop my book on the table and dig my cursed smartphone out of the Gucci bag on the table. I don’t know why I bother looking at the caller ID anymore. It’s the same every day. It’s the same every time this phone screams. Thank God I hadn’t programmed a song for my ringtone or it’d be stuck in my head every moment of the day.

**Geneva Croft** , states the phone in bold, sculpted letters over a glamorous picture of my sister, no doubt taken by herself and programmed for her contact. It does no justice. If there ever lived a true-to-form Cruella deVil, it would be Geneva Crumplebottom. Now a Croft, this only added to the image. Fur coats and immeasurable wealth to be spent upon them, shrill voice and a propensity for cruelty. Except hers extended beyond animals and enveloped all of humanity. Oh yes, she did a grand job of covering it up with her overall air of sophistication and civility; but it was cold, had teeth to it. If there ever lived a person who knew this more intimately than anyone, it was I.

“So, darling, I spoke with Isaacs…” Another set-up. And I was supposed to be so full of gratitude and practically begging her to get me a date so I could leave my lonely, dreary house. That’s my sister for you. I put on an air of fake gratitude to cover up my irritation and took a breath to ask her how it went; however, she added, “He was  _ sorry to inform me _ he could not make it. Ever!” Geneva’s shrill voice was incapable of anything but hostility, much less something so below her as sympathy, so the whole sentence came out as if she were shrieking it at me. Coincidentally, the phone itself shrieked with feedback. Even technology couldn’t handle Geneva’s frequency. “ _ Maude _ ! These men are afraid of you!”  _ As well they should be _ , I added mentally. Geneva would have practically thrown a tantrum had I voiced it aloud. Here comes the lecture. “You need to do something about yourself, darling. Show this town what they are missing. And, darling, get  _ out there _ and show them. You and I both know how much you need some air.” I narrowly avoid telling her I  _ do _ in fact get out to go shopping, obviously, (Even though sometimes I get my butler to do so) and go to the library, but I figure the gesture would be lost on her.

“Yes, yes, I know.” I play the part of poor little sister that needs her elder’s help to know how to live, even managing to sound disappointed in myself. I even almost ignore how much she uses the supposed term of “endearment” (my sister wouldn’t know what endearment was if it fell into her lap and looked her in the eye) she’s using far too much, probably out of spite. I hate the word  _ darling _ . I never want to hear that word again.

Geneva rambles for the next half-hour. I humour her by cutting in here and there with my own rambles, but they’re always half-baked: she doesn’t want to hear about me, I don’t want to hear about her. It’s always like this. Two sisters, barely more than strangers. If I have to be honest, I’m not even sure why she calls.

By the time I hang up the phone, I’m mentally drained. Reading doesn’t even seem entertaining anymore. Plus, what’s the point of trying to read and relax when Geneva is bound to call at least another time before I went to bed, once while I’m sleeping, and again before I can even finish making breakfast? I swear I’m a light sleeper and always on edge because of all this. So instead of reading or any form of relaxation, I do the worst thing for me: I think.

I’m a blonde, and I’m rich, so the general consensus is that my skull is a calcium balloon. As per usual, this is not the case. I overanalyze. I pick apart a problem and labour over every detail. This comes off to people that I don’t have any opinion because I’m too busy mulling over it to voice it. My sister was no help. In her eyes, no one has an opinion but her; so, inevitably, my opinion was hers. Which was and is very harmful because we were and still are two very different people with two very different mindsets. If she’s Cruella deVil, I’m the Evil Queen. However, no one else ever realized this because we were thought of as one mind, even as rivals. This view didn’t change as I got older and developed an outspokenness my sister hated. Even as I voiced my opinion, everyone always categorized it as meaningless or in league with Geneva’s. I wasn’t allowed to have my own voice with an elder sister that could easily pass as a dictator.

All this to say that I do a lot more thinking than anyone gives me credit for, which isn’t always a beneficial thing. I try not to think too much since… No. I won’t even say it. Suffice it to say thinking is inherently both a credit to my breed and detrimental to my personal health.

It is now almost 8:00. I’ve been sitting here for an hour. Catatonic. Yet again. A check of my smartphone reveals I’ve missed a call. Geneva, of course: no one else calls. Hastily I call her back, even though it’s useless. She’s going to ignore me for the next 24 hours, which is both a blessing and a curse. The call goes straight to voicemail as expected and I debate leaving an apologetic message. Before the beep can sound, I end the call and stuff the phone in my Gucci bag. It is silent the rest of the night.

  
  
  


Four o’clock on the dot. A grandfather clock sits in the corner of the room, it’s face obscured; but I  _ know _ it’s four. It’s always four.

The familiar paralysis of fear washes over me. I’m bundled up tight to my chin, but still my body is wrapped in an icy grip. It’s here again. My god it’s been weeks, but it’s here again.

I watch as the tornado lamp atop my cabinet painfully flickers out. My eyes flick, head and neck frozen in place. Suddenly a shadow. It glides along the walls and comes to rest at the head of my bed, towering over me.  _ Not real, not real. It’s never real. _ I chant this mantra every night, but still the shadow stays. My eyes can’t even close, eyelids frozen as much as the rest of my body. Ice crawls under my skin, exuding from my pores. The shadow grows, wavering. My teeth clench, scritching against each other.

By the time I’m able to move again, my eyes have adjusted to the dark. It is 6:00 AM.

  
  
  
  


The steam from the coffee does its job. I hold my face above and hands around the mug, letting the unbearable heat start to wake me. Sleep was impossible after a visit. Thankfully, Geneva is still made enough that my phone hasn’t gone off once. Right now, that’s a blessing. Later, it will be a curse.

My bleary eyes rise to the view before me. Three full-length windows peer out over the cliffs behind my house. The ocean stretches, pulsing and crashing. I live so close, but I can’t… I just ca--

A huge gulp of black coffee is downed in penance. I don’t think of that. I  _ never _ think of that.  _ A year has passed. Get over it. _ Maybe I should consider Geneva’s carefully arranged set-ups. She’s just trying to look after me after all.

Another gulp is downed. Oh god, what was I thinking? I blame it on the budding migraine. With a whisper, I send a prayer up that I’ll get some sleep tonight. I just need sleep, that’s all.

  
  
  
  


My day continues as usual: I read, I try to write, I pick up a paintbrush but no colour ever touches the canvas. I wander my glass box like a ghost.

NO! I can’t think like that. My mind wrestles with the silence. It struggles to maintain nonchalance, but still it finds me gazing out at the ocean far more than usual. My eyes are magnetized to the view. In just moments, I find myself at the window seat, face glued to the glass, eyes tracking the listless sway. I can almost see it: a couple splashing about, carefree. I blink, spell broken suddenly, and it’s only a man jogging with his dog along the surf.

I know I should go down there; I know I should face it. This is the closest I’ll ever get. Damn my oceanfront property. But I’m loathe to sell it. It’s all I have left of him.

  
  
  
  


The house is too stuffy. I amble out to my Rolls Royce and speed into town. The farther from ocean and glass boxes, the better. My Rolls breezes past the road down to the beach, and I’m not even compelled to look this time. I’ve had enough nostalgia today.

The drive takes hours. Luckily, I have the gas to pull it off. The streets take me all over town and I let them. Driving is relaxing for me somehow. Just getting away, I guess. Before… Just ‘before,’ I hated driving; I was fidgety and overloaded and far too tense. Since...I don’t know. Getting away from that house means everything to me. And if driving is the way to do so for a few hours, I guess that carries over.

I find myself on the hill across the valley, opposite mine, pausing at the tiny park wedged into the cul de sac. It’s more for show than use, but isn’t everything when it comes to rich people? How funny of me to say. Ha. Rivals of ours, they call them: two mansions on a hill, rivals themselves. They don’t even come close. The Crumplebottoms are old money, and my sister’s union to the Crofts, another old money family, staked our claim on this valley. If you want to view it my sister’s way, that is. I have no care for this valley anymore. These upstarts on the hill are just criminals with smiles. Circling about the park, I send a flick of a wave their way. It’s more than they deserve.

I’ve been driving for another hour when I realize I’ve turned down the wrong street. There it is, to my right: sprawling sand and rolling waves, the pier as old as our family, Kirk…

Veering violently to the left, I barely avoid someone’s fence. As bad an idea s it is, I park on the street next to their house, pointedly not facing the ocean. Climbing into the passenger seat, I wrench it back just as violently. There I lay, hands in my hair, fingers digging into a haunted skull.


	3. GOOD NEWS!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thank you for your interest in this story! Unfortunately, I won't be updating any time soon...because I am now a published author! Check out the link below to my debut novel.

     Plethora turns even the most hardy defenseless and overwhelmed. In a world intent on destroying humanity, five Survivors wonder if it is really worth fighting for.  
     Check out my debut novel, [Reprogrammed: Book One](http://www.blurb.com/b/9295239-reprogrammed), the first book in the Reprogrammed Trilogy.

**Author's Note:**

> You're in for one gnarly ride.


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